Counting Ten
by i'mpeckable
Summary: After the restaurant takeover ended, what happened before Face returned to the team
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own the A-Team. Wish I did.

  


Summary: Based on a comment made by one of the editors of "The Shadow That Follows," after reading the paragraph in which the team drugs Murdock and removes him from DC General. How would they do it, where would they put him at Langley, and how would Murdock feel about it after he woke up. This little story's for you, Wookiee. Addendum: This was supposed to be a one-chapter short story. It has other ideas though

  
  


Episode Spoiler: "Without Reservations"   
  


Rating: PG just to be safe   
  


Counting Ten

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


    
The room was dark, but sharp slits of light outlining the window shades indicated that it was probably early afternoon. He stretched, and the muscles in his right shoulder and side protested. He was disoriented, but it was a vaguely familiar disorientation. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, willing his spinning brain to settle and pin down his thoughts.

  


    
There it was. A couple of times at the VA hospital-when he'd gone too far with some of his stunts-he'd been given a sedative of some sort. Sedatives always left him kind of foggy. Not like BA, who always came out of his induced sleep roaring mad. No, those things gave him a headache and sent his delicately balanced sense of reality for a real ride. Okay, disorientation accounted for..

  


    
He opened his eyes again, searching for some clue of his surroundings. He was lying in a bed--a normal, everyday bed. Throwing back the covers, he started to sit up, then thought better of the idea. _Damn, I must've gotten the dose on an empty stomach, a couple gallons of coffee, or both_. He lay back, closed his eyes, and counted to ten, then--for good measure--to twenty. 

  


    
Eyes still closed, he reached out to both sides. One hand felt bed and more bed. The other he whacked on something hard next to the bed. He cursed and pulled his hands back, rubbing the one ruefully. Opening his eyes again, he turned his head just enough to make out the dim outlines of an ordinary night stand.

  


    
"Okay, _muchacho,_" he muttered. "One big bed, one night stand. Looks like a bedroom to me."

  


    
He sat up cautiously, easing himself backwards until his back was supported by the headboard and glanced around the room. A dresser, a couple of chairs, a desk. Lamps scattered throughout the room, including a small one on the night stand. Assorted pictures hung on the wall, along with a full-length mirror over by what was probably a closet door. There were two other doors. One had to lead out of the room, and other might be a private bath. In spite of its motel-like neatness, the room was disturbingly familiar. 

  


    
He reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on. A circle of light pushed back the dimness, throwing shadows on the walls and softening the slices of daylight from the windows. He ran a hand over his face and head. He needed a shave, probably a shower too. Looking down at the rest of himself, he noted he wore black socks, black trousers, and a white button-down shirt, tails untucked. No shoes, though. He looked around the room again, and then it hit him.

  


    
He was at Langley.

  


    
And this was Face's room. 

  


    
But that didn't make sense. Why knock him out, just to bring him here? And why Face's room? Murdock puzzled on this for a moment, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He paused, but his head didn't threaten to roll off his shoulders as it had before. Feet on the floor, hands braced on either side to steady him, he looked around the room again. A pair of black dress shoes had been tossed under one of the chairs. That same chair had what looked like a vest draped over the back. He rubbed his forehead, trying to push the headache away. _It must have been one hell of a dose_, he thought. He hadn't felt this bad for a long time. An elusive thought nagged at him, but he couldn't pin it down.

  


    
He stood, and shakily made his way to one of the doors. Leaning against the wall, he opened it. "Wrong guess, _muchacho_," he said, looking into the closet. It was definitely Face's closet, though. No doubt about that.

  


    
With one hand on the wall to steady himself, Murdock made his way toward the door by the mirror. Feeling light-headed, he stopped by the chair with the clothes and shook his head to clear it. That was a mistake. He sat in the chair, put his head to his knees and counted to himself. He straightened up, leaning back into the chair, and felt something stab into his back. He twisted around, and pulled the garment off the back of the chair. 

  


    
It was a vest, a red one, and he had been poked by a pen in one of the pockets. He threw the vest on the floor, stood again, and irritably tucked the tails of the shirt into his pants. _Face's shirts were always too short on him. _

  


    
Another mental click. He looked again at the rest of his clothes. He picked up the vest, searched the pockets again, and pulled out a guest check pad with some of its pages ripped out. He dropped them both and sagged back into the chair, remembering.

  


    
_The restaurant, Villa Cucina. The mobsters, and the failed first attempt at getting rid of them. Face on the kitchen floor, dying. Hannibal and BA conning their way into the restaurant, and the cop-that damn cop--turning the whole mess back over to the mobsters. And then, five minutes before the Attorney General walked into the place, finally getting the upper hand. He and Frankie racing to DC General, hoping that the others had gotten there in time. The waiting. That doctor, that surgeon, said something about Face that he didn't quite remember. But he remembered BA practically sitting on him afterward. Watching in the intensive care unit; the machines with their beeps and hums and clicks. Watching Face._

  


    
That didn't explain why he was in Face's bedroom, though. Murdock stood and made his way to the other door, the one that had to lead out of the room. He paused, hand on the handle. There was a muffled voice on the other side; someone talking as though not to disturb others. He smiled grimly to himself, and opened the door.

  


    
The afternoon sunlight illuminated the great room of the complex. It would have been blinding, had he not turned on that lamp before leaving the bedroom. As it was, he blinked several times, trying to adjust his vision. The room seemed empty. Then he spotted a silhouetted figure on the far side of the room, its back to him. The posture indicated the person was talking on a telephone. Murdock listened intently, recognizing the voice.

  


    
"No, Johnny," Frankie was saying, "I haven't heard a peep outta him." A pause. "He is? But he's going past the apartment first, right? I mean...." Another pause. "I don't know....yeah, okay." He paused again, listening, nodding his head. "Okay, man, gotcha." He hung up the phone, staring at it.

  


    
Murdock had walked across the room, as quietly as his still aching head would allow him. He was a few feet from Frankie when the other turned toward him.

  


    
"AAHH!" yelped Frankie. He blanched, then recovered. "Don't do that to me, man!" he gasped, looking at Murdock. "You scared me outta a year's growth."

  


    
"What's going on, Frankie?" Murdock asked.

  


    
Frankie peered at him closely. "You look like death warmed over," he said. "Uh, forget that, bad choice of words." He made as if to guide Murdock to a seat. "Look, maybe you'd better sit down." Murdock looked at him, and Frankie backed off. "Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands, "but if you fall on the floor, I ain't pickin' you up." He retreated a few steps, watching. 

  


    
Murdock swayed, and Frankie instinctively stepped forward to catch him. Murdock's hand shot out and grabbed Frankie's shirt, pulling him in until they were nose-to-nose. Frankie's eyes widened, and he gulped. Murdock was still in one of THOSE moods.

  


    
"What is going on, Frankie?" Murdock repeated, each word crisp and distinct.

  


    
"All right, all right," Frankie surrendered, "Just sit down, man, okay? BA'll kill me if you crash out here." 

  


    
Murdock's grip loosened slightly. He moved toward the sofa, towing Frankie with him, and collapsed on it. He released Frankie, who scrambled to the opposite end of the sofa, out of Murdock's reach. Frankie eyed Murdock warily, muttering a wish that Hannibal had left BA to do the babysitting rather than him.

  


    
"Talk," said Murdock.

  


    
"You sure you don't want some aspirin or something," Frankie stalled, "A glass of water, uh, something to eat? How 'bout a shower, huh?" He tensed, ready to spring off the couch if Murdock moved. "You know, you look like you could use another nap. Why don't you...."

  


    
Murdock looked at him again, and Frankie shut up. Murdock kneaded his forehead. The ache had dulled, and he knew some food and a shower would probably take care what was left of it. But first, he had to know what was going on.

  


    
"What day is it" he asked.

  


    
"Tuesday," Frankie said, "Ah, afternoon."

  


    
Tuesday. That meant that the takeover was yesterday. Murdock looked at Frankie. "Face?" he asked.

  


    
"Still unconscious, according to Johnny," Frankie said, "I was talking to him on the phone when you, uh, you..." he searched for a euphemism, "...woke up."

  


    
Questions swirled in his head. He pinned down one. "Why'd you knock me out?"

  


    
"Hey, that wasn't my idea," Frankie sputtered, "That was Johnny's. You were making the nurses nervous, and they told you to leave, and you wouldn't. You got real violent about it. So Johnny arranged with them to get something. You were guzzling coffee by the bucket anyway, and he slipped it in your cup.' He shrugged. "He said it'd hit you like a ton of bricks and, man, it did"

  


    
That figured. Coffee, no food, and Hannibal knew how sedatives affected him. And he would not have expected Hannibal to slip one to him. BA was usually the recipient of those moves. 

  


    
"Okay," said Murdock. Frankie started to rise from the couch. "Sit," Murdock commanded, "we're not finished." Frankie sat. Murdock thought for a second, then asked, "How'd I get here?"

  


    
"We brought you here in the van," Frankie said, "Johnny couldn't leave you at the hospital, and he wasn't gonna leave you at your place. He figured we'd bring you here and, ah, watch you so you were okay. So I stayed, and he and BA went back to the hospital. They've been there all morning." He hesitated. "BA's on his way back here, but he's stopping by your place to get some stuff for you."

  


    
Murdock's brain pinned down another question. "Why Face's room?"

  


    
"Well, he wasn't using it," Frankie said defensively. Murdock looked at him, and he stopped, realizing how it sounded. "Hey, I didn't mean it that way. We figured, ah, nobody'd bother you with running in and out. I mean, we all showered and stuff before they went back. And, uh, well, Johnny just thought you'd be more comfortable in there than on the couch. You know...." his voice trailed off nervously. He fidgeted on the couch, looking toward the door.

  


    
Murdock sat silently, eyes closed. A range of emotions swirled through him; anger, frustration, fear, hope. His thoughts were disorganized, and he couldn't seem to stay on one subject at a time. 

  


    
Frankie leaned forward. "Hey, why don't you go take a shower, huh?" he suggested.

  


    
"I will when I am ready!" Murdock snapped. 

  


    
"Okay, okay." Frankie sat back, looking as though he wanted to be somewhere else. He watched Murdock for a moment, then said tentatively, "You, ah, want a aspirin or something? You look like you need one."

  


    
Murdock opened his eyes. "Ah, right," said Frankie, "Shut up. Right?"

  


    
The door opened, and BA strode in, carrying several bags. Spotting the two on the couch, he walked over and dropped the bags on the floor. The clothes and personal items in them spilled over the floor. "Hey, man," he greeted them, "I got some stuff from your place for you." He looked at Murdock sympathetically, but with a hint of amusement in his eyes. For once, their roles were reversed, and BA couldn't help being slightly smug about it. "You better get changed. They ain't gonna let you near that hospital looking like that."

  


    
BA turned to Frankie. "You go fix somethin' for Crazy Man t'eat," he ordered. Frankie left, glad to be out of the room, "Fool ain't gonna be no good for anything," he grumbled, "'Less he get some food down him." He paused, then yelled to Frankie's back, "And don't bring him no coffee neither. Bring some milk." 

  


    
Murdock looked up at him, scowling. "Why'd you take me outta there, BA?" he asked angrily, "You had no right to do that. What if Face dies? You don't think I should be there? I don't have the right to know what's going on with my fellow team member, my FRIEND?" He stood, his anger building. "Just when did I become a second-class member of this team, anyway? When?"

  


    
BA said nothing. He was reminded of the kids at the youth center, the angry ones. Murdock was just a big, angry kid and he would have to deal with him as such.

  


    
Unfortunately, BA's silence further irritated Murdock. "Answer me, damn you!" he yelled. He grabbed at BA, who knocked his hands away.

  


    
"I ain't sayin' nuthin'," BA snapped, "I come back to see if you awake, 'cause me and Hannibal know you oughta be there. You done flipped out last night, man, and they was ready to haul you back to that crazy house, till Hannibal knocked you out. We brought you _here_ so's they couldn't take you _there_."

  


    
Murdock glared at BA, who held the gaze. He knew that his brute strength could handle Murdock easily, but he didn't want to hurt the man. Not with Face still fighting for his life. No, they all needed to be there, and Murdock had to snap out of this fast.

  


    
"Look, man," BA said gruffly, "That doc, he didn't give Faceman much chance to make it last night. But Face, he still fightin'." He paused, the words coming hard. "He need us, Crazy Man, _all _of us. And that don't mean you locked up in some nuthouse. He need you right there, right now."

  


    
Murdock stood still for a moment. His hands dropped to his sides, and he sighed. He closed his eyes, and BA knew he was counting ten, maybe twenty. Then his eyes opened and met BA's. "I think," he said softly, and paused, "I think I'll go take a shower." He turned and walked into Face's bedroom.

  


    
BA whistled silently. He scooped up the scattered clothes and started toward the bedroom, pausing to yell to Frankie, "Get a move on, Movie Man! I ain't waitin'!"

  
  


to be continued

  
  



	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


    
BA waited until he heard the sound of water from the shower before dumping the clothes he carried on the bed. He hadn't expected Murdock to give in quite so easily, and was relieved that he had. Not that he blamed the crazy fool anyway. BA knew that if their positions been reversed, he would have reacted the same way. 

  


    
He left Face's room, crossed the great room of the complex and entered the kitchen. He headed for the refrigerator, brushing Frankie-who was digging in it for something--out of the way. Frankie's reaction was instantaneous.

  


    
"AH!" he yelped, whirling away from the refrigerator. "Man, don't do that to me!"

  


    
"What's your problem?" BA scowled, reaching for the milk carton. "You's supposed to be fixing somethin' for Murdock t'eat. You ain't suppose to be screwin' 'round."

  


    
"You and Murdock," Frankie groused, "Sneakin' behind people, scaring the sh-"he paused as BA scowled at him, "--ah, stuffing outta them. I'm lucky I'm still in my skin."

  


    
"What you talkin' 'bout?" BA asked. He opened the carton, lifted it, and swallowed.

  


    
Frankie opened his mouth to complain, then closed it. "Nuthin'," he muttered, "Nuthin'." He threw a couple of sandwiches together, piling ingredients Dagwood-style.

  


    
BA set down the milk carton and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at Frankie, inspecting him. Frankie grew more tense under the scrutiny. "What?" he asked, fidgeting under BA's gaze. "What, you don't like what I'm making?" 

  


    
"What you so antsy 'bout?" BA asked. "Crazy Man been out all this time, ain't he?"

  


    
"Most of it," Frankie admitted, scowling, "but he sure was pissed when he woke up."

  


    
"So?" BA scoffed, "What he gonna do? Fall on you?" A grin creased his face briefly at the thought. "Hannibal tol' you them drugs don't agree wit' him." 

  


    
"No kiddin'," Frankie retorted. "Ain't the first time I thought he was gonna tear my head off, neither." 

  


    
"That stuff always makes him loose," BA shrugged dismissively, "Mess wi' him somethin' fierce."

  


    
Frankie snorted, and turned his attention back to the sandwiches, slapping them together as if punching someone.

  


    
BA studied him. He kept forgetting-as they all did-that Frankie hadn't around them all that long. The man hadn't developed that "sixth sense" they seemed to have about each other. He could feel fear radiating from Frankie. It wasn't just what was happening with Face, or the encounter with Murdock. It was something deeper. But he didn't want to deal with that now. Getting back to the hospital with Murdock came first.

  


    
The silence grew almost palpable. Finally, BA said, "He jus' scared." 

  


    
"Murdock?" Frankie said, incredulously, turning back to BA. He found that hard to believe. Murdock-like the others--had always seemed so in control. Loopy, but in control. 

  


    
BA didn't reply. Instead, he turned and walked out of the kitchen. Puzzled, Frankie watched him go. Then he began wrapping the sandwiches, piling them on the counter. He picked up the carton of milk BA had left on the counter, but it was empty. Setting it down, he walked back to the refrigerator, looking behind himself to be sure no one was there before opening the door and searching for more milk. There was none, and the lone juice carton that was the only non-alcoholic beverage in there was also empty. He didn't think BA would agree to Murdock having a beer.

  


    
"Looks like it's gonna be coffee," sighed Frankie. There was enough left in the coffee maker to fill one mug. He could hear BA's objection already. "Oh, well." He gathered up the pile of sandwiches and the mug of coffee, and went into the great room.

  


    
BA stood near the glass doors, staring out onto the grounds. He glanced at Frankie, acknowledging his presence as the other entered the room, then turned back to the window. 

  


    
Frankie dropped the sandwiches on the table in front of the couches and set the mug next to them. "Is he out yet?" he asked.

  


    
BA shrugged. Frankie walked to the bedroom door, and hesitantly tapped on it. No response. He cracked the door open, and craned his head around it. The room was empty. He listened, but there was no sound of running water from the bathroom. Frankie withdrew his head, closed the door and retreated back to the couches.

  


    
"Well, he's out of the shower," Frankie reported, "I think." BA didn't respond. 

  


    
Minutes passed. The door of the bedroom opened. Murdock walked out, looking slightly damp, and dressed in his usual outfit. "Let's go," he said shortly.

  


    
BA turned and looked at him. "Sit down and eat," he said.

  


    
Murdock glared back at him. BA returned the stare. "You eat, or I feed it t' you," said BA, "We ain't going till you eat somethin'." He moved in front of the door and crossed his arms, waiting. "Now."

  


    
Frankie watched them nervously. This did not promise to be a pleasant ride to the hospital. The argument appeared far from over, and he did not relish the thought of playing peacemaker to those two. He wished for a trapdoor to appear in the floor, so he could disappear. He searched for a way out of the confrontation, but found none. _Stockwell's appearance would be an improvement to this,_ he thought as he sidled toward BA.

  


    
"We're wasting time," Murdock said. He walked toward BA and the door. BA stood his ground. Frankie paused, trying to keep his distance from Murdock. 

  


    
"You ain't gonna be flippin' out again," BA insisted, "You know what that stuff do to you."

  


    
"I know, you know, Hannibal knows," Murdock retorted, stopping in front of BA, "That didn't bother anybody this morning."

  


    
BA let the remark pass. He knew Murdock was as anxious to get back to the hospital as he was. He looked at Frankie and said, "Get them sandwiches." 

  


    
Frankie looked from BA to Murdock, and back to BA. He went to the table and gathered up the sandwiches and coffee. Frankie walked back toward BA, edging behind him until he could reach the door. There he halted, unable to open the door with his hands full. 

  


    
"Ah, BA, you wanna open the door for me?" Frankie asked. 

  


    
Scowling, BA reached behind and opened the door, allowing Frankie to go through. BA turned back to Murdock. "You eat in the van," he conceded. Murdock shrugged, and BA let him leave the complex. 

  


    
They got into the van, and Frankie passed a sandwich and the coffee to Murdock. BA looked at the food, then turned to Frankie. "I tol' you no coffee," he scowled, "You's supposed t'bring milk."

  


    
"You drank it," Frankie protested, "What was I supposed give him, a beer?"

  


    
BA heard a soft snort, and turned back to Murdock. A small smile flickered across the pilot's face. "I ain't movin' the van till you start eatin'," BA said.

  


    
Murdock pivoted the seat so he faced BA, deliberately unwrapped the sandwich, and took an exaggerated bite from it. Cheeks bulging, he chewed precisely, eyes locked on BA. Eyebrows wagging in a ghost of his usual manic expression, he made a show of swallowing, then raised the mug and took a long, slurping drink. He set the mug down, and inquired, "Can we go now?"

  


    
BA's lips twitched in response. "Don't spill no coffee in my van," he said, starting the vehicle. 

  


    
They drove in silence, Frankie fidgeting in the seat behind Murdock. Murdock polished off two sandwiches and the mug of coffee, then stared-unusually still--out the window. BA glanced at him occasionally, uncomfortable with Murdock's silence, and his own worries. Rush hour traffic was starting to pick up on the George Washington Parkway, and while BA would have preferred another route, this was the most direct way back to the hospital.

  


    
It wasn't until they passed the exits for Arlington that Murdock spoke, triggered perhaps by the directional signs for the National Cemetery. "It's my fault," he said, his voice just barely audible to Frankie and BA. 

  


    
BA looked at him, then quickly back to the road, distracted by an errant driver. "Watch your driven', fool," he said irritably to the passing auto. He glanced back at Murdock again and said, "It wasn't your fault, man." 

  


    
Murdock looked at him, and BA saw pain on his face. "Every time I screw up," Murdock said, "somebody gets hurt."

  


    
"That wasn't your fault, neither," BA said, eyes back on the road. The cemetery had bothered him, too. _Bad 'nough Murdock's beaten' himself up over this. Man don't have to take the blame for everythin'._

  


    
_Oh, yeah?_ said Murdock's expression.

  


    
"What're you talking 'bout?" asked Frankie. 

  


    
Neither responded. They looked at each other again, then Murdock turned back to the passenger's window, and BA concentrated on the traffic as they crossed the Potomac. There was no further conversation as they drove through the city, passing famous landmarks, until they pulled into a parking lot near the hospital. 

  


    
They left the van, and walked toward the entrance; reluctant to enter, yet knowing that they would not stay away. Hannibal would have called had anything happened. But in this brief period of time between leaving the van and entering the hospital, the worst was still possible. 

  
> 

    
Murdock and BA paused at the entrance doors. Behind them, Frankie stopped abruptly, confused by their hesitance. They stood for a moment, then Murdock looked at BA and said, "You think we're like cats, BA?"

  


    
"What?" said BA.

  


    
"Nine lives," Murdock said thoughtfully, "With all the things we've pulled, we must've had nine lives given us somewhere." He looked up at the building, thinking about Face, and Hannibal waiting in there.

  


    
"We been lucky," BA admitted after a moment. His expression turned stoic, as if preparing for a blow he couldn't duck. "C'mon, Murdock," he growled. He pulled open the door and walked into the hospital. Frankie trailed behind him, glancing questioningly back at Murdock.

  


    
"I hope you got a few left, Face," Murdock said softly, and followed the others through the doorway.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


TO BE CONTINUED

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

He'd always thought of hospitals as busy places, with people–and their all-important task of saving lives–hurrying every which way. But on this floor there was little human traffic. Of course, they had come in the main entrance this time, rather than the emergency room. The pace was a little slower here. Still, it just didn't feel right.

The others were ahead of him, BA holding the doors to the elevator. "Come on, man," he urged. Murdock joined them. The doors closed, and they watched the numbers change as the elevator rose. People entered and exited, looking in askance at the three men there. The Puerto Rican with his hair pulled back in a ponytail, the muscular black in the Mandinkan haircut and gold jewelry, and tall, thin Caucasian in the baseball cap and flight jacket were an odd combination by anyone's standards.

The elevator finally stopped at their destination. They exited, and–with Murdock leading--followed the signs to the intensive care unit. Pushing through the doors defining the unit, they were stopped by a staff member whose name tag identified her as a certified nursing assistant. "Who are you looking for?" she inquired.

Questioningly, Murdock glanced back at BA. He nodded, and Murdock turned back to the woman. "Templeton Peck," he answered.

"He's not able to have visitors," she said, "Only family."

"We are," said Murdock, pushing past her. Mouth open in astonishment, she looked at BA and Frankie. She scurried to catch up to Murdock. "You can't come in here," she sputtered, "You just can't." She followed them to the nurses' desk, still protesting.

The desk was situated such that someone seated there could monitor several rooms, each with a large window allowing staff to see directly into the room. Some were occupied. A few had blinds closed, indicating that staff members were engaged in personal cares with the occupants. Others were empty, their machines standing silent. Staff moved between the rooms and the nurses' station. The conversation was an odd mix of medicalese regarding the patients interspaced with discussions of movies, personal life, and work-related cares.

Murdock stopped at the desk, unsure where to go next. "This way, man," said BA, heading toward one of the rooms with blinds closed. Frankie followed. The aide continued to squawk at them.

One of the nurses rose from behind the desk and intercepted them. "I'll handle it, Trini," she said softly to the aide, who looked relieved. The nurse then turned to the trio. "I'm sorry," she said, addressing her words to BA and pointedly ignoring Murdock "You can't go in there right now." She smiled, a professional smile, obviously in command of the situation. "We will be finished in a few minutes," she continued, "Your other friend has gone to the cafeteria. Why don't you join him there? Or, if you prefer, there is a waiting room outside the unit."

Murdock started to protest, then BA's elbow jabbed into his ribs. "Cool it, man," BA warned, "You get us all kicked out." He grabbed Murdock's arm, swinging him around to exit the ICU. Murdock started to pull away.

Frankie grabbed the captain's other arm and they hustled him from the unit. "I think we've already been kicked out," he observed, "Didja see the way she didn't look at Murdock?"

BA merely grunted. Murdock glared at him.

They passed the waiting room on their way back to the elevator. BA hesitated, then entered it, towing Murdock and Frankie with him. He dragged Murdock to a chair, positioned him in front of it and pushed, much to the consternation of the others in the room. Murdock collapsed into it. BA grabbed a magazine from one of the tables, shoved it into Murdock's hands, and scowled at him.

"I'm gonna go find Hannibal," he growled, "You make them nurses mad, I'm gonna feed you your socks." With a warning look at Frankie, he left the waiting room.

"Wow," said Frankie, "He got grouchy fast."

Murdock tossed the magazine back on the table, a shadow of a grin on his face. "He always gets like that after confronting female authority types," he said, "You should see him after he visits his mother." The grin faded. He got up from the chair and walked over to the window, gazing out at the city.

Was it only twenty-fours hours since he had stood in the complex at Langley, wheedling the others to come to the restaurant? He watched the traffic on the street below, rush hour in full force. His gaze drifted, seeing the buildings surrounding the hospital, then mentally seeing the land flattened out two blocks later, becoming the Congressional Cemetery. He had walked there several times since coming to Washington, wandering among the graves of the notables and the ordinary.

_Damn, he had cemeteries on the brain. But BA was right. He WAS scared (and so was the big guy.) Scared that their luck had finally run out. He knew Hannibal was apprehensive, too. He'd watched the man too long, especially in Vietnam, to believe otherwise. The colonel was so confident that he could pull his men out of any situation, that it hit him really hard when he lost a man under his command. And he'd lost very few._

He continued to stare out the window, lost in thought. Then his mind drifted back to Monday night, replaying the scenes, critiquing and criticizing. But it still boiled down to one fact. If he hadn't nagged Face to come to the restaurant, and then to take out those hit men, they wouldn't be here.

_He had to talk to Face._

He turned from the window and glanced around the room. Frankie was hunched in a chair, attention occupied with a magazine. There was a handful of others in the room, absorbed in their own thoughts. Coffee machine in the corner, chairs, and small tables piled with magazines were scattered about the room. The only doorway was the one to the hall. _Well, it is the oldest trick in the book, _he thought and–mentally crossing his fingers–walked toward the hallway.

Frankie glanced up as he passed. "Gonna find the john," Murdock mutteredFrankie nodded and went back to his magazine.

He paused at the doorway, checking the hall for Hannibal and BA. _Clear on the left, clear on the right,_ he thought, _The firing line is clear. _He glanced back to be sure Frankie wasn't watching, then turned and went quickly through the ICU doors.

His luck held. At that moment, the nurses' desk was empty, staff members occupied elsewhere. He scanned the smaller rooms, studying the pattern of blinds and doors. One room had blinds down, but the door was open, and Murdock headed for it.

His instinct proved correct. He paused at the door, as there was a nurse–a different one–still inside the room. She looked up from the chart she held, and said, "Yes?"

"How's he doing?" Murdock asked. He moved in front of the blinds, out of sight from the desk.

Eyebrows raised, she answered, "You are . . . ?"

"A friend," he said, "A good friend." She started to protest, and he interrupted, "I know. Only family." He paused, then said, "But we are his only family."

He could almost see her thoughts in her face. She regarded him for a moment, then her eyes narrowed in recognition. "You're the one they took out of here last night?" she said. Her tone made it a statement rather than a question.

Embarrassed, he looked down at the floor. "Yeah," he admitted. He glanced back up at her and smiled. "But I promise to behave," he said.

Unexpectedly, she returned the smile. She walked around the bed, closed the door, and turned to him. "You could get this from your colonel, you know."

Surprised, Murdock looked at her. She opened her mouth, closed it, and shrugged. "Been there, done that," she said, "I recognize the attitude." she said. She glanced back at the desk and decided, "Okay, quick update. And if you're staying, you can sit," she indicated a chair at the far side of the bed, "over there. You won't be seen easily from the desk."

He walked to the chair and sat, then turned back to the nurse. She scanned the monitors, then the chart in her hands. "He's still unconscious. His vitals are iffy–not great, but not really bad either," she said, "He's had a _lot_ of fluids pumped into him. Looks like he coded--" she stopped and looked up, gauging his reaction, then continued, "ah, nicked spleen; perforated stomach and intestines--that caused an infection. He's on antibiotics right now, and we've got him on some really strong painkillers." She closed the chart and inquired, "Enough?"

Murdock nodded. She opened the blinds, reached for the door knob, then turned back to him. "We're letting you guys in only one at time," she apologized, "there isn't room, and we do need to work in here." She opened the door and left.

He felt as though he was peering through a cage of tubes and wires. He looked across the monitors, recognizing some of the readings–pulse, blood pressure--that they displayed. He could only guess at the functions of the others. _Well, he was a pilot, not a doctor._ The EKG machine was oddly comforting, though, tracing the pattern of a heart that still beat.

Finally, he looked at the man lying there.

The stillness bothered him. Face was normally a restless sleeper. That was one complaint they'd all voiced over the years, having shared rooms and occasionally beds. Face always tossed around in bed as though he were wrestling demons in his sleep. _Didn't they all? _Now the only motion was the rise and fall of his chest.

Murdock reached through the paraphernalia, touching Face's wrist. The skin was warm _(that's good)_, but Face still seemed pale, like a dark shirt that had been bleached by mistake. It contrasted oddly with the sweat-darkened hair laying across his forehead. The locks of hair looked like fingers reaching down over Face. Murdock reached up and brushed the hair to one side, disturbed by the image.

He took refuge in inanities. "Hey, Facey," he said gently, "you know, this is gonna play great on the big screen. I wonder who they'd get to play us. Especially BA. Who'd be dumb enough to run around in all that jewelry he likes? And Hannibal, he's kinda hard to cast."

He paused, watching Face. " And you. Maybe they'd get that guy who plays that private eye in Hawaii. He'd have to shave off that mustache, and he's a little tall for you, but the girls will go for him. Or . . . , or how 'bout the guy from 'Indiana Jones'?"

He looked at the monitors, then back at Face. "Did you ever see 'Ghostbusters,' Face? There's a guy in there, I think he'd make a great me. 'Course we'd all be too old to play ourselves by then. But we could sit back and watch. Maybe they'd even make us into a TV series. They did it with 'MASH', you know. "

Murdock paused again, imagination running. "Yeah, then we could sit back and collect royalties. Just think, little copies of BA's van. Lunch boxes, T-shirts, sweatshirts. Maybe even our own breakfast cereal."

Suddenly, the alarm from one of the IV pumps went off, sounding like a chopped rendition of Beethoven's Fifth. Startled, Murdock looked up, then at the nurses' desk. He slid down in the chair, trying to look inconspicuous.

The nurse–the friendly one–hurried into the room. "It's just the bag's empty," she said reassuringly to Murdock. He straightened in the chair, relieved, and watched as she hung a full bag on the stand and connected it. She checked the monitors, then looked Face over. Flashing a quick smile at Murdock, she returned to the desk.

His movie monologue broken, Murdock sat in silence. He reached over and touched Face again. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky.

"Face," he said hesitantly, "I never should've let this happen. It's my fault. If I hadn't pushed you to help, those guys might've made their hit and gone. Maybe we should've taken them down then." He paused. "I screwed up again, and you're the one paying for it. Just like before." He pulled back his hand, rubbed it across his eyes, and sighed. "I wish I could trade places with you."

The silence continued. He dropped his head into his hands. As dusk sent lengthening shadows through the room, echoes from the past began drifting through his thoughts.

"_Never coming back? Neither of them?"_

"_No, son. Dead means never coming back."_

He shook his head, willing the echoes to leave.

"_I'm sorry, Captain. They didn't make it. None of them."_

"Go away," he whispered, "leave us alone."

"_You will die here. All of you."_

"No," he said softly.

"_Sentenced to be executed . . . "_

His head snapped up. "NO!" he shouted.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


    
"Frankie, where's Murdock?"

  


    
Frankie looked up from the car magazine he had been studying. BA loomed in front of his chair, with Hannibal next to him. Murdock was nowhere in sight, and Frankie belatedly realized that he hadn't seen the man for a while. 

  


    
He didn't want to meet BA's eyes, so he turned to Hannibal. "Ah, in the bathroom?" he stuttered, fervently hoping it was true.

  


    
Hannibal raised his eyebrows, then looked at BA. BA grimaced and nodded. Hannibal walked back to the hallway. He looked both directions, shrugged, and walked back into the waiting room. He picked up a magazine, and sat down.

  


    
BA and Frankie watched him. When Hannibal was seated, BA rolled his eyes, sighed loudly, and--muttering ominously-walked over to the window. He stared out of it, continuing to grumble under his breath.

  


    
Worried, Frankie got out of his chair. He crossed the waiting room, then the hallway, and entered the men's room. He emerged, frowning, and walked over to Hannibal. "He's not in there," he reported. "You want me to go look for him?"

  


    
Hannibal shook his head. "Sit down, Frankie," he said.

  


    
"But. . . but . . . ," Frankie protested, "I mean, ah, I know I was supposed to be watching him." He paused, then added lamely, "He said he was going to find the john."

  


    
Hannibal grinned. "He did, did he?" he said, with a glance at the prominently marked restrooms. 

  


    
Neither he nor BA seemed concerned about the missing Murdock. Nor were they checking on Face's condition. Frankie was confused. This wasn't like the guys-especially after all the trouble they'd had earlier. They usually kept tabs on each other pretty good, and this _laissez-faire _attitude wasn't them at all. He paced the room, mentally worrying the problem. 

  


    
Hannibal looked up at him. "Sit down, Frankie," he said, "You're making people nervous."

  


    
"I'll go look for him," Frankie offered.

  


    
"Don't bother," said Hannibal, "he's fine."

  


    
"Crazy fool," BA grumbled, "Gonna get us all in trouble again."

  


    
"You don't think he's gonna turn up in the kitchen," Frankie said, looking from one to the other, "or . . . or an operating room, or something?" He looked back at the hallway.

  


    
Hannibal sighed. "He's in with Face," he said.

  


    
Frankie's jaw dropped. "He's what?" he sputtered, "Those nurses kicked us out of there."

  


    
Hannibal tossed the magazine back on the table. He hadn't been reading anyway. It was merely something with which to occupy his hands, since he couldn't have a cigar in here. "Sit down, Frankie," he repeated, looking pointedly at Frankie. He added, "Murdock's gotta work this out himself." 

  


    
Frankie perched on the edge of a chair, expecting a tirade from Hannibal. Instead, the man leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Frankie shifted in the chair, and glanced at BA, who-unusually contemplative-- continued staring out the window. A rare smile flashed across BA's face, and disappeared just as quickly. 

  


    
Sliding back in the chair until he was properly settled, Frankie looked again at Hannibal. He appeared tired, and it occurred to Frankie that neither he nor BA had slept since they brought Face here. _And probably not since they'd got back from that mission of Stockwell's_, he thought. 

  


    
"Hannibal." BA's voice sounded a warning note. Hannibal's eyes opened. Two hospital security guards passed by the glass wall of the waiting room, heading toward the ICU. 

  


    
"Uh-oh," said Hannibal, rising from his chair. He headed for the doorway. "C'mon, guys," he said, "I don't want to call Stockwell again."

  


    
They followed the guards into the ICU. A nurse stood in front of the guards, talking stridently and gesturing toward the room where Face was. Hannibal frowned, and headed for that cubicle. As they passed the group, the nurse stepped in front of them. The guards loomed to either side of her, barring the way.

  


    
"You are not to be here," she insisted.

  


    
"Look, lady," said Hannibal, "We'll get him out of there. If you send in your buddies there, there's gonna be trouble."

  


    
"I want them all out of here," she insisted, ignoring him and looking at the guards, "Now." One guard moved toward the room, the other stayed beside her, glaring at the team.

  


    
"BA," Hannibal said. BA followed the moving guard. The second guard started after him, until Hannibal grabbed the man by the arm. "I wouldn't do that," Hannibal cautioned, "He's in a bad mood."

  


    
"Outta my way," BA said to the guard. He shoved the man away from the cubicle doorway and went in. The blinds to the cubicle were again closed, but muffled, indistinct voices drifted from it. BA reappeared in the doorway, dragging a scowling, protesting Murdock with him. The bewildered security guard followed. 

  


    
The other nurse walked out of Face's room, looking irritated. "What is going on?" she demanded.

  


    
"These men are disturbing the unit," said the first nurse, "I called security to remove them."

  


    
The second nurse brushed a lock of hair from her face with an exasperated sigh. "There was no disturbance, Jean," she said, "until you called those guys."

  


    
"Right," Jean said sarcastically. She pointed at Murdock. "He's not supposed to be in here, yelling and bothering the other patients. I told him so. They have to leave." 

  


    
"He's my patient," responded the other, "I'll decide who can and can't be with him." She returned to the room.

  


    
Miffed, Jean turned to the security guards. "Remove them," she ordered. The guards stepped forward.

  


    
"Relax," said Hannibal, "We're going." He took Murdock's other arm, and-with a look at Frankie-left the unit, trailed by the security guards.

  


    
When they returned to the waiting room, the guards conferred. Then one left, and the remaining guard posted himself by the doorway of the waiting room.

  


    
"Nice," observed Hannibal, "a babysitter."

  


    
"Fool," growled BA at Murdock, "You almost got us kicked outta the hospital."

  


    
Murdock was silent. He resumed his former position at the window. Hannibal and BA arranged themselves in chairs, forming a gauntlet through which Murdock would have to pass to leave the room. Frankie chose a seat near BA, folding himself into a chair. He hesitantly reached for another magazine, keeping a wary eye on the other three. 

  


    
Hannibal's eyes were again closed, but Frankie doubted that he was asleep. BA also appeared to be dozing. Murdock stood at the window, unnaturally still. All three looked peaceful enough. The tension in the room, however, was almost palpable. Even the guard seemed to feel it, as he shifted and glanced nervously at the four of them. Frankie turned his attention to the magazine, hoping to lose himself in it.

  


    
He awoke to the sound of arguing. Soft as though not to disturb others, it still had a heated intensity. Disoriented, he bolted out of the chair and scanned the room.

  


    
The lights had been dimmed, in deference to the night hours, but the room was still decently lighted. The security guard was gone. In his place, stood Stockwell and two of his "Ables," each about the size of BA. The team was also at the doorway, BA and Murdock looking agitated and Hannibal coldly furious. Frankie listened, trying to catch up on the situation.

  


    
"-agreed to two weeks off, Stockwell," Hannibal was saying, "We're not going anywhere."

  


    
"We ain't goin' nowhere," rumbled BA, "till Faceman's outta this hospital."

  


    
"We have an agreement," Stockwell said mildly, with his irritating smile, "You gentlemen haven't finished with your part of it yet. This matter in South America cannot wait for Lieutenant Peck."

  


    
"You can take your 'matter in South America'," interrupted Murdock, "And put it where the sun don't shine. You expect us to pick up and move on like we've lost some _supplies_?" He gestured angrily at the ICU door. "That happens to be a person lying in there, not some piece of replaceable equipment." He moved toward Stockwell, and the Ables stepped forward, menacingly. Murdock ignored them, concentrating on Stockwell. "We're all getting a little fed up with your chess piece attitude," he spat.

  


    
"You're free to leave anytime, Captain," Stockwell said, "Unlike the others, you don't need a presidential pardon." He paused, and his smile hardened. "I'm sure the Veterans Administration-among others--would be quite interested in your whereabouts. Considering your, ah, 'history', the local office might want to keep closer tabs on you."

  


    
Murdock's face darkened. Frankie stared, and BA looked at Murdock, startled. Even Hannibal couldn't suppress a flicker of surprise at Stockwell's words. The two Ables watched impassively.

  


    
"You will return to Langley," Stockwell continued, "accompanied by Able Five and Able Ten. You will remain there until further notice. Any questions?"

  


    
Murdock started to protest, fist raised. BA restrained him, and Hannibal stepped between Murdock and Stockwell. The two agents produced handguns from beneath their jackets, leveling them at the team. Stockwell cocked his head at Hannibal, swept his arm toward the elevator and asked, "Shall we?"

  


    
Hannibal shot a look at Stockwell, then the others. He headed toward the elevator, accompanied by Stockwell. The first agent gestured with his weapon. Murdock shut his mouth and followed Hannibal and Stockwell, shadowed by the agent. Frankie scurried to catch up to them. BA and the second agent brought up the rear.

  


    
The hospital seemed deserted. Third shift had few visitors, and the reduced staff was apparently occupied with their duties. The few people they encountered on their way out regarded them with raised eyebrows, puzzled looks, and occasionally no reaction at all. The agents had replaced their weapons in their holsters before escorting the team out, so as not to unduly panic any civilians. 

  


    
The van had been brought to the hospital entrance, and parked behind Stockwell's limousine. A chauffeur sprang to attention, opening the back door of the limousine.

  


    
"After you, Colonel," Stockwell invited, "Your men will return via Sergeant Baracus' van, along with Able Five and Able Ten." He smiled thinly. "It will make things easier for everyone."

  


    
Hannibal's face was expressionless. He looked at the team, shrugged, and entered the limousine, followed by Stockwell. The chauffeur closed the door, walked around to the driver's side, and got in. The limousine moved off. 

  


    
With a look that dared Able Ten to object, BA got in the driver's seat of the van. The agent occupied the seat next to him. Able Five gestured for Murdock and Frankie to get in, then seated himself next to the sliding door. BA started the van, and pulled away from the hospital entrance.

  


    
The ride back to Langley was quiet. Darkness had settled on Washington, and the many landmarks that were visible by day were muffled by the combination of streetlight glare and darkness. BA drove sullenly, sparing an occasional glare at Able Ten. In the far back of the van, Frankie fidgeted, watching out of the rear windows. 

  


    
Seated in his usual position in the van, Murdock brooded. He knew Able Five was watching him, randomly glancing at both Frankie and BA. The fact that the team was back under surveillance aggravated him, and he knew it was his fault. _But,_ he thought,_ if we had been under surveillance earlier, maybe they could have got help for Face sooner. No way, _he argued back,_ if they'd still been under surveillance, Face and Frankie would never have come to the restaurant._

  


    
_Isn't that the point?_ said a small voice in his head. 

  


    
Murdock snorted angrily, shifting in his seat. He saw BA's eyes glance questioningly at him via the rearview mirror. He shrugged back in answer. Able Five was still watching him covertly, hand resting near his holstered weapon. Murdock glared at the agent, crossed his arms, and slid down in his seat. He pulled the baseball cap down and closed his eyes. 

  


    
The thrum of the bridge decking as they crossed the Potomac caused him to reopen them. Traffic was relatively light, and BA was making good time. Even the traffic lights appeared to cooperate. Still, it was not the direction they wanted to be going.

  


    
His thoughts drifted back to the last update on Face, which they had gotten just before Stockwell arrived with his goons. The nurse who had given it to them had seemed sympathetic, much like the one who had let him stay with Face. _Are all hospitals that fractured in their staff? _ he wondered, remembering the other nurse, the one who had called hospital security. He didn't remember the VA hospital he'd left being that way. Maybe it was different in this kind of hospital.

  


    
_No change, she had said. Face was still unconscious. His vitals were-what did she call them? Oh, yeah, "iffy." Interesting medical definition, _he mused._ No response to pain stimuli, she had also said, and something to the effect that they may have to consider "going back in." That didn't sound good either. _

  


    
The van slowed, turning into the driveway to the Langley complex. Stockwell's limousine was already there. That in itself was a relief, for Stockwell could have spirited Hannibal somewhere else in an attempt to make the team cooperate. The chauffeur stood at the side of it, waiting, which meant Hannibal and Stockwell were already inside.

  


    
Able Ten motioned for BA to stop the van. Able Five got out and indicated for Murdock and Frankie to come with him. The van moved away, heading toward the garage.

  


    
The three men entered the complex. Hannibal was seated in his chair, facing the L-shaped couches. Stockwell stood near the fireplace. Both men looked as though they'd just ended a heated argument.

  


    
Stockwell gestured for Murdock and Frankie to join them. They glanced at each other, then sat on the couch, facing Hannibal. Able Five took up a position behind them. 

  


    
"We'll wait for Sergeant Baracus," Stockwell said.

  


    
BA arrived shortly after, accompanied by Able Ten. At Stockwell's invitation, he seated himself on the remaining empty couch. 

  


    
Stockwell moved to the junction of the two couches, and surveyed the men seated there. Hannibal gazed back, grimly patient. BA scowled at Able Ten and Five, who had positioned themselves on either side of Stockwell. Arms crossed, Frankie looked at the floor. Murdock glared at Stockwell, but said nothing.

  


    
"I will grant your request to remain here until Lieutenant Peck either recovers. . ." Stockwell said, "or does not. No missions." Surprised, the team looked at him. "However, gentlemen, you will remain _here_, until that occurs." He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze resting the longest on Murdock. "If he is to recover, the hospital staff would prefer work without interference. You will be updated on a regular basis."

  


    
He indicated Able Five and Ten. "The surveillance teams will be in place. I know that in the past you have amused yourselves with them. Be aware that they now have orders to shoot first and ask questions after." He looked at the team. "This situation will require some . . . ," he hesitated, then smiled, ". . . _delicate_ handling." He nodded to Able Five and Ten. They exited, disappearing into positions on the grounds.

  


    
He looked pointedly at Murdock. "Since Peck's room is unoccupied at the moment," he said, "I suggest you make use of it. It will be more comfortable than the sofa." Murdock jerked as if he'd been slapped.

  


    
Stockwell bowed slightly to the team. "Good night, gentlemen," he said, and walked out into the night.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


To be continued

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  



	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

  
  
  
  
  
  


    
Stockwell's announcement created an eddy of silence which remained until the door closed behind him. There was a pause, as though someone were counting ten. Then, with the energy of a bursting dam, three of the team stood and turned to Hannibal.

  


    
"Hannibal-."

  


    
"Man, we ain't-."

  


    
"He's kidding-"

  


    
Hannibal held up a warning hand. The voices stilled. Hannibal pulled a cigar from his pocket, and lit it. He took a long draw from the cigar. Voice level and serious, he said, "Stockwell's right. There's nothing we can do for Face at the hospital." He looked to each of his men, meeting their eyes. "It's probably best that we turn in for the night."

  


    
Three jaws dropped in unison. Three pairs of eyes stared at him as if he'd gone crazy. Hannibal took another puff on the cigar and looked to the door. With arms folded, BA scowled back at him. Frankie dropped back onto the couch in disgust. Hands thrust in his pockets, Murdock met Hannibal's eyes, then grinned.

  


    
One more puff, and Hannibal grinned back. 

  


    
BA's face cleared. "Right," he said, drawing the word out, "Man, I ain't slept since-"

  


    
"Since you had your beauty sleep on the flight back from Spain, you big ugly mudsucker," said Murdock, manic delight shining in his eyes. He danced around BA. "Come on, Billy," he called, "We're gonna raid the 'fridge for our bedtime snack." Continuing his dance, Murdock headed toward the kitchen.

  


    
Frankie looked at them in confusion. Hannibal raised his eyebrows at him, then moved toward Face's bedroom. 

  


    
BA grinned at Frankie. "Might've left my van lights on," he drawled, "Better go check 'em." He walked to the front door, opened it, and walked out.

  


    
Hannibal emerged from Face's room. He looked at Frankie and mouthed, _Check the perimeter. Watch for bugs. _He entered his bedroom.

  


    
"Huh?" said Frankie. Then it dawned on him what the others were doing. "You're slow, Santana, " he muttered. He scrambled from the couch and headed toward his room. 

  


    
When he returned to the great room, Hannibal's cigar was out, and being waved like a pointer. Murdock chewed loudly on something. BA was closing the front door, his scowl back on his face. They gathered by the fireplace.

  


    
"Murdock," said Hannibal, holding up one finger and pointing at BA's room, "you forgot to close the refrigerator door." He held up one finger again, then indicated Face's room. "You know how upset BA gets when the milk goes sour." A third time, and pointed toward his room.

  


    
"Sorry, Colonel," Murdock apologized. He held up two fingers, then pivoted toward the kitchen. "But you know how Billy loves to crawl in there." He pointed toward the back of the house, then to the front. "Besides," he continued, "someone left a ham bone in there, and it took both my hands and one foot to get Billy out of there."

  


    
"Shut up, fool," growled BA. He mimed starting the van, then held up one finger, then indicated the front door and one finger again. 

  


    
Murdock howled for Billy. Then, mimicking Scooby-Doo, he said, "I love ham bones." 

  


    
"I said, shut up, fool," BA repeated, "Dogs can't talk, and there ain't no dog here."

  


    
Hannibal looked to Frankie, who was struggling not to laugh at the conversation and gestures. "Um, yeah," Frankie managed, sounding as though he were choking, "ah, looks like, ah, ONE big mess in there." He waved his hand at his room.

  


    
Murdock pounded him on the back, causing Frankie to choke for real. Hannibal thoughtfully chewed on the cigar. Stockwell was serious about keeping them there. Normally, two agents watched the compound, although there had been a few times when they'd rated five. Eight agents would certainly be a challenge. _Well, it could have been twelve or twenty._

  


    
Hannibal looked at the rest of the team, each man in turn. "This is one time," he said softly, "we're not going out as a team." He paused. BA nodded. Murdock stood silent. "We'll meet at the hospital."

  


    
"Stockwell said they'd shoot us," Frankie protested.

  


    
"Run fast," Hannibal said mildly.

  


    
Frankie gulped. The other three looked at each other. Hannibal raised his eyebrows. Murdock shook his head. BA shrugged and nodded again. "Okay," said Hannibal, "Go with BA for the van. We'll give you a thirty-second head start." His gaze returned to Murdock, and he gestured to the door. "Shall we, Captain?" he invited

  


    
Hannibal and Murdock moved toward the front door, while BA and Frankie headed toward the back. They paused, listening, as the others opened the back door. Then both men began silently counting.

  


    
When Murdock got to fifteen, he heard the shouts of Stockwell's agents as they sighted BA and Frankie. Hannibal pulled the door open at twenty. He and Murdock slipped through the doorway. Pausing briefly, they looked at each other, then disappeared in opposite directions.

  


    
Murdock headed for the trees, thanking every deity he could name that Stockwell had put the team in a place surrounded by them. He paused inside the tree line, willing his vision to adjust to the darkness, and orienting himself. _No gunshots yet._ He moved deeper into the area, away from the road that lead into the compound. 

  


    
Part of his mind concentrated on getting through the stand, his movements automatic. _Think back to that other jungle and the Cong._ The other part began to free-associate in his usual manner. _Cong. Kong, Danish word for king. Stockwell acts like one. Kong him next chance I get. If the big guy doesn't do it first._

  


    
The trees thinned. His breath came in short gasps. His pace slowed, not because he was tired_ (good thing I'd been running to work lately)_ but because this area was unfamiliar. The parkway was near, he could hear its traffic. That was probably the best bet. Hitch a ride. He headed toward it, pacing himself. _It's fourteen miles to the hospital if I don't get a ride,_ he reminded himself. _Wonder how the others are doing?_

  


    
BA-along with Frankie-was keeping Stockwell's men busy enough for Hannibal and him to escape. Murdock knew that after BA finished with the agents, he would circle back for the van. The big guy would be watching for the others on his way to the hospital. 

  


    
He made his way into a subdivision. The houses stood in the darkness, silent watchers. He had to watch himself-many of the roads were cul-de-sacs and dead-ends. One had to pick his way carefully, or you'd be looping inside the subdivision forever. _Too bad some kid hadn't left his bike out. That'd help._ But the driveways were empty.

  


    
His shoes slapped the pavement, echoing a rhythm of long ago. His mind began to count cadence._ Left, left, left, right, oh left, right, oh left. _ The free part of his brain began singing along. _C-130 headin' down the strip. Airborne daddy gonna take a little trip. Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door. Jump right out and count to four. If my chute don't open wide. I gotta 'nother one by my side. If that one don't open too. Look out below, I'm comin' through._

  


    
He headed south, following the pikeway, looking for an entrance ramp. Early as it was in the morning, there would be his best chance to catch a ride, maybe with someone on their way to work. He kicked up his speed a notch, hoping.

  
  


    
Retired First Sergeant Rueben Miller had answered to his rank for so long, he'd almost forgotten that he had a first name. He drove along the Dolley Madison, grousing about his predicament. His daughter had managed to smash her mother's car, two days after getting her driver's license. _Funny, none of the boys ever did. You'd expect that out of a boy. But no. Just Jenny. _ With his wife working nights at the hospital, and him still going in at the Pentagon, one car in the family just didn't cut it. Jenny 'd been grounded, of course, but still. 

  


    
Normally, this was one of his favorite times of the day. The drive allowed him to steel himself for those snot-nosed officers he had to deal with. Miller hadn't met many officers worth a tinker's damn during his career, and working at the Pentagon hadn't improved the ratio. _What's this man's Army coming to?_

  


    
Intent on his thoughts, he didn't see the figure--with its thumb out-- at the side of the road. He swore, swerved, and stopped the car. Whoever it was had good reactions. The person had jumped, rolled, and was now sprawled at the roadside. As Miller got out of the car, the figure rose slowly to its feet.

  


    
"Christ on a broomstick!" the sergeant swore, "You okay?"

  


    
"Yeah," a man's voice answered him shortly. The guy brushed himself off. Concerned, Miller looked him over.

  


    
He was older that Miller'd first thought. Tall, thin, but not skinny. The leather jacket caught his eye. A pilot's jacket, and an old one. Miller raised an eyebrow at the painting on its back. Khaki pants, the old Army issue. Basketball shoes. A baseball cap, which the guy removed briefly, brushing back thinning hair before replacing it. He tugged the jacket down, then looked at Miller, a ghost of a grin on his face.

  


    
"A 'no' would have been sufficient," he said.

  


    
"I didn't see you," Miller said, his heart still pounding in his chest, "What the hell you doing? I damn near ran you over."

  


    
"I know," said the other.

  


    
Miller took a deep breath, ordering himself to settle down. The guy didn't seem hurt, and acted like the whole thing was a big joke.

  


    
To Murdock, it almost was. _Just what Hannibal needs. Me in the room next to Face. _The sergeant in front of him was beginning to calm down. _Hope the guy doesn't have a heart attack._ Murdock glanced around, listening, then turned his attention back to the sergeant.

  


    
"Sorry," he said, "I was hoping for a ride."

  


    
Miller looked at him, then smiled. "I should be the one apologizing," he said, "Sure, hop in." He got in himself, waiting for the other before he continued. "I was distracted," he said, "My daughter wrecked the wife's car the other day."

  


    
Murdock nodded in as if understanding. Miller continued, "It's hell, with both of us working. And then Jenny-well, you know kids. Don't think they can walk anywhere." He looked at Murdock and said, "Rueben Miller" He lifted an eyebrow in question.

  


    
"HM Murdock," Murdock responded.

  


    
"Where're you headed?" Miller asked.

  


    
"DC General," Murdock said. There was a silence, as though the other were waiting for further explanation. "My, ah, my wife," he improvised, squirming a bit in the seat, "She, she's, um, she's been in a accident, and, ah, she had, she has our car, our only one." He glanced out the window. _No sign of Stockwell's men. _Turning back to the sergeant, he continued, "They, ah, they said she wasn't hurt bad, but, um, she, she's pregnant, y'see." _Damn! What'd you say that for?_

  


    
Miller grinned at him. "Your first?" he asked.

  


    
"Uh, yeah." _And last._

  


    
Miller shook his head in sympathy. "First-timers," he chuckled. "You could've taken the bus, you know. 'Stead of running all the way there."

  


    
Murdock managed to look sheepish. "I didn't think about that," he admitted. _Not the sort of thing you think about when you're running from government agents._ Miller continued to ruminate about kids, families, his job, and assorted other subjects. Murdock found that an occasional nod, or grunt was sufficient to keep the man talking. That in itself was a relief. His thoughts alternated between Face and the rest of the team. He worried on this, then realized that atmosphere in the vehicle had shifted.

  


    
"I. . . , I'm sorry," he said, "I . . . wasn't listening."

  


    
Miller chuckled again. "No problem," he said, "I still remember my first, an' he's twenty-five now, and a daddy himself." He shifted slightly, pulled a wallet from his back pocket, and handed it to Murdock. "Go on," he invited. 

  


    
Murdock opened the wallet. The pictures fell automatically into place. A fifties wedding picture, the man in corporal's stripes and the woman looking like a bubble cut Barbie doll. A modern school picture of a girl, sixteenish. Three formal portraits of boys in coats and ties. A group of soldiers, out in the jungle somewhere. Another wedding picture, late seventies. And a newborn's picture, nondescript enough that one couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. 

  


    
He folded the wallet together, and handed it back. Miller returned it to his pocket, and turned the car to cross the Potomac. Startled, Murdock looked at him. "You don't have to . . . " he began.

  


    
"'S alright," Miller interrupted gruffly, "We both been there."

  


    
Murdock knew he wasn't referring to a maternity ward. He nodded in acknowledgment. They rode in silence until they approached the hospital. 

  


    
Miller slowed the car and pulled it to the curb in front of the hospital. Murdock opened the door, exited, then leaned back in. "Thanks," he said, "I do appreciate this."

  


    
Miller waved a hand. "Just hope your wife and baby are okay," he said.

  


    
An imp awoke in Murdock's brain, and stretched its wings. He grinned at the man. "Babies," he enunciated clearly, "Four of them."

  


    
" Ah-ROO-hah!" exclaimed Miller, with a grin. "Boy, you're in for it!" Murdock closed the door, smiled, and waved as the man drove away. The smile stayed frozen until the car was out of sight. Then-with a soundless whistle-his hand dropped and his shoulders sagged. 

  


    
He thrust his hands in his pockets and turned to the entrance. He reached for the door, searching for signs that Stockwell's agents had staked it out and were waiting for him. Fingers crossed, he pulled it open and entered the hospital.

  
  
  
  


TO BE CONTINUED

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


author's note: Yes, this chapter has taken longer than I thought. Work has not cooperated (having to deal with death in reality causes one to avoid dealing with it in fiction). Also, Murdock had some pretty wild ideas on how to get to the hospital (which were promptly quashed). Thank you, Drew, for the kick-start. 

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  



	6. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


    To his surprise, there weren't any agents waiting at the door. That in itself caused the hairs to rise on Murdock's neck. It wasn't like Stockwell. _Unless,_ he thought,_ the others have been picked up already._ _Still, there should have been at least one Able posted there._

  


    It took every ounce of control to walk casually across the room toward the elevators. He hesitated there, then moved to the stairwell door beside them. He glanced back at the desk. The person there was absorbed in a magazine, and paid no attention to him. Opening the door, he slipped quickly into the stairwell and climbed to the next floor. He paused at the landing, looking through the small window in the door there. The immediate area seemed deserted, so he cautiously opened the door. 

  


    His luck held. The elevator's doors next to him remained closed, and no desk faced the area. A sign posted on the wall indicated directions to operating suites, staff locker rooms, and waiting rooms. He followed the arrows to the locker rooms. 

  


    As he passed the women's locker room, the door opened abruptly. He swerved--not quickly enough-and crashed into the door. He heard a gasp, followed by an apologetic voice exclaiming, "Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there." 

  


    "It's okay," he said. He stepped back and pushed his cap back off his face. 

  


    His assailant was an older woman, dressed in a lab coat with scrubs underneath. She seemed vaguely familiar. "Are you sure?" she fussed, "I wish they'd put mirrors by these doors. You don't know how many people get hit with them." She closed the door, looked him over professionally. "Are you sure you're okay? These doors are pretty heavy." 

  


    "I'm . . . I'm fine," he stuttered. "I was just startled. I'm, uh, I'm . . . " 

  


    "Lost?" she inquired. 

  


    He nodded, then seized on an idea. "It's, uh, my first night." He glanced at the locker room door, noting the keypad on it. "I was . . . I was trying to remember the, uh, the code for the locker room." Murdock paused. "Uh, somebody was supposed to meet me, but I couldn't remember where, and I thought I'd just come up here and get ready." 

  


    "Probably Nick," she snorted. "He's so scatterbrained." She walked over to the men's door. "I don't know why they let him mentor. "Here," she interrupted herself, "it's easy to remember. Nine, seven, five, three, star." She punched the numbers as she spoke. The door buzzed, and she pulled it open. "Nick?" she called. "Nick? 

  


    There was no answer. The woman turned to Murdock and gestured him in. "Just go get ready," she said, "I'll go find him." 

  


    "Oh, don't bother," Murdock said, "I'm sure I'll find him, no problem. I don't want to get him in trouble." 

  


    The woman looked quizzically at him. "Okay," she said, "if you're sure." 

  


    "Positive," Murdock said. "I appreciated this, uh, . . . " He glanced for her name tag. 

  


    She held out her hand. "Janey Miller," she said, "Welcome aboard." 

  


    "Thanks," he said. He smiled at her and closed the door. 

  


    The locker room was deserted. He leaned against the door and sighed. Straightening, he glanced around the room. Lockers lined one wall, facing a set of shelves loaded with various pieces of scrub suits, sorted by size. He walked over to them, selected a shirt, pants, and jacket, and put them on. Nearby, there were several hampers lined with laundry bags. He took an empty bag from a hamper and stuffed his clothes inside. Lacking a comb, he used his fingers to rake his hair forward. 

  


    He headed toward the door, then stopped. The sign on the back of the door cautioned staff to "cover scrubs with a lab coat when leaving the OR area." A rack of lab coats stood next to the door, a blatant reminder. Murdock dropped the bag, searched for a coat in his size, and threw it on over the scrubs. He picked up the bag, smoothed his hair down one more time, and reached for the door knob. 

  


    He opened the door carefully, remembering his earlier encounter. This time the hallway was clear, and he headed back to the elevators. Again, the hallways appeared deserted, and he got into the elevator undetected. He pushed the button for the ICU floor and waited, bouncing nervously on his toes. 

  


    The doors opened. He stepped into the hallway, then paused. There was a janitor down the hall, mopping the floor. One agent stood at the entrance to the ICU. Remembering the nurse who had thrown them out earlier, Murdock grinned. He moved forward purposefully, bag slung over his shoulder. 

  


    The agent flung out an arm at him. "Hold it, buddy," he said, "Where're you going?" 

  


    "Aw, man," Murdock whined, "I just gotta take this bag in there, and I wanna say hi to my girlfriend." He looked pleading at the agent. " We ain't seen each other for a week, and we got three more days before we get off this shift." _I should've grabbed one of those caps,_ he thought, mashing his hair back down on his forehead. 

  


    The agent looked at him warily. "You don't work up here," he said. 

  


    "Naw, man, I work down in OR," Murdock lied, "It's a real pain in the relationship, working the same place but different departments. You never get to see each other." 

  


    "All right," the agent gave in. He still seemed doubtful, and glanced through the doors toward the ICU's desk. Murdock guessed that the staff had given Stockwell a bit of hell about having his men in the ICU proper. _Good for them. _He gave the man a mock salute, and entered the unit. 

  


    There seemed to be more people milling around the desk than he remembered. He glanced at the clock and realized that it was shift change. He looked around, then moved unobtrusively toward Face's room. Snatches of conversation jostled for his attention as he passed the desk. 

  


    He thought he heard the name "Peck," and paused. The speaker had her back to him. She turned, and a shock of recognition raced through Murdock's brain. It was the nurse from yesterday. Not Jean, the other one. The one who had let him stay with Face, until the security guards came, and BA hauled him out of the ICU. 

  


    She looked at him, seeing only the scrubs at first, and scowled. "Can I help you?" she asked. Her gaze moved up to his face, then-like before-her eyes widened in recognition. She looked around quickly at the rest of the staff, then back to him. "What are _you_ doing here?" she whispered fiercely. 

  


    "Shh," begged Murdock. "There's an agent out-" 

  


    "I _know_ that," she said, "What is going on?" 

  


    "It's a long story," said Murdock. "Please, we just want to be with our friend." 

  


    "_We_?" 

  


    "Please?" 

  


    Another nurse came up to them, asking, "Renee, what do you know about the guy in four?" She noticed Murdock and added, "Oh, I didn't realize you were mentoring today." 

  


    Renee looked at Murdock-who was listening intently-then back at the other. "Um, yeah, I had him yesterday." She paused, looked at Murdock again, and said, "Listen, Kay, why don't I take four, and you take the lady in one?" 

  


    Kay shrugged. "Fine by me," she said, "Here's the chart." 

  


    Renee accepted the chart, and watched until the other had returned to the desk. She turned to Murdock. "You sit at the desk until I come for you," she said. She turned toward room four. 

  


    "Let me come with you," Murdock said. 

  


    She smiled. "No." He started to protest, and she held up a hand. "I know," she said, "You're the closest thing he has to family, etcetera, etcetera." She paused, then said empathically, "No. Sit at the desk. Read a chart or something." She stopped, realizing what she had said and amended, "No, don't read a chart." She walked back to the desk, glanced around, grabbed a manual from the shelf and handed it to him. "Pretend to read this," she said, "You're new staff, and I'm mentoring you, okay?" Murdock nodded. She sighed and went to room four. 

  


    Murdock walked to the desk, sat, and opened the policy manual she handed him. He kept his head down as if he were reading, but watched Face's room. The blinds were down, the door closed, and he wondered how Face was doing. He glanced around the unit, and noticed that half the occupied rooms had blinds down. He flicked a page over and looked around the desk. 

  


    Movement near room four caused him to look up, and he saw Renee leave room four. He stood, ready to leave the desk. She caught sight of him, and shook her head. He sat back down, and she went into another room. The blinds closed. 

  


    He looked at Face's room, and noted the blinds were still closed. Murdock was tempted to sneak into the room anyway, but he stayed where he was. She was helping him, whatever her reasons, and he didn't want to cause more trouble for her. 

  


    There was a flurry in one of the rooms, accompanied by staccato voices. Murdock slid down in his chair, hoping no one would request his assistance with whatever was happening. Minutes passed, and then Renee hurried to the desk. She picked up the phone and punched a few numbers. "This is Renee in ICU. Page Dr. Rogers, and notify OR we need a room, stat." She hung up and returned to the room. 

  


    It seemed as though the wheeled stretcher and its attendants appeared almost instantly, followed by a man in a doctor's coat. Murdock risked a quick look as the group went into room five. _Not Face,_ he thought in relief, then added, _God help whoever it is_. 

  


    The minutes slowed. The stretcher reappeared--accompanied by the doctor- retraced its route, and disappeared. Murdock watched as staff members emerged from the room, Renee included. She bit her lip, and shook her head in response to a question, then excused herself and hurried over to Murdock. 

  


    "Okay, let's go," she said. Murdock rose and followed her into room four. She closed the door behind him and indicated the chair. He sat. She glanced at the monitors, did a quick assessment of Face, then stood in front of Murdock with arms crossed. "What is going on?" she demanded, "Yesterday it was the four of you, and today we got guys in dark suits all over the place." 

  


    "It's a long story," said Murdock. 

  


    "You said that already." 

  


    "I know." Murdock glanced at Face, and asked, "How is he?" 

  


    She hesitated. "Some guy named Stockwell . . . " 

  


    "Damn!" The thought verbalized itself, along with a flash of anger. _Stay in control, _he cautioned himself,_ It's not her fault._ "Sorry." He hesitated, composing himself. "Okay, we work for the government. Stockwell is our . . . boss. He didn't like us here, doesn't like us anywhere, loose. This," he indicated Face, "was just a freak thing we stumbled into. It wasn't a job. Mob hitmen and the attorney general. It never would have happened if I hadn't bugged Face into taking out those guys." 

  


    "The news said the owner of the restaurant . . . " 

  


    "I know." Frustrated, Murdock ran his hand through his hand. "We're supposed to be a secret." _Some secret._ "Like I said, it wasn't even a job. I was working at the restaurant and I convinced Face and Frankie to come to there for dinner...Monday." _Has it only been a day and a half?_ "It was just supposed to be a . . . a night off. And then . . . " 

  


    She put a hand on his shoulder. "Okay," she said softly, "It's not your fault." 

  


    Murdock dropped his head into his hands, breathing deeply. Then he raised it and asked, "So how is he?" 

  


    She withdrew her hand, looked over the monitors and Face once more, then said, "No change." She stepped back, drawing professionalism around her like a cloak, and added softly, "We gave him another unit of blood last night. His blood pressure's been dipping a bit." She glanced at the IV bag. "I've got to get another, and my other patient's moving today." 

  


    "Look," said Murdock, "The others, they're, uh, they're trying to get back here. Could you, . . . I know it's a lot to ask, but could you get them back up here?" 

  


    "I can't do anything about that," she said. 

  


    "Okay," Murdock amended, "_would_ you _let_ them back here if they get this far?" 

  


    "I won't promise." 

  


    "Good enough." She opened the door, and he added, "Thanks." 

  


    She smiled in acknowledgment, flipped the blinds open, and paused. "Who are you, anyway?" she asked. "I can't just call you 'hey you'." 

  


    "Oh, I'm sorry." He rose and extended a hand. "Murdock," he said, "HM Murdock." 

  


    She clasped his hand automatically and responded, "Renee Tainsch." She turned to leave, stopped and turned back to him "Talk to him," she said, "Hearing is the last sense to go." She walked out of the room. 

  


    Murdock watched her return to the desk, then turned back to Face. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


to be continued

  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

  
  
  
  
  
  


    
The mop swirled in patterns on the floor. Tiny bubbles trailed in its wake. Occasionally the handle hit the pail, causing a faint ring to echo down the hallway. It scraped the floor in rhythmic swishes, interspaced with clatter of the wheeled bucket as it was pushed down the hall.

    
The man with the mop paid no attention to anything else. With the concentration of an artist, he worked his way slowly down toward the ICU doorway, stooping over the bucket. His pants dragging along the floor, hiding his shoes. The color of dirty snow, they matched the scrub jacket he wore over a brown T-shirt. His gray ponytail was tied with a piece of string. Thick, horn-rimmed glasses clung desperately to the end of his nose, threatening to slide off with the least provocation.

    
He stopped in front of the agent there, and drew himself up slightly. Shoving the glasses back up his nose, he scowled at the other man. "Y'gonna move, or I gotta mop over ya?" he demanded.

    
The agent stiffened. The janitor thrust his face at the other's. "I ain't got all night, mister," he said.

    
The agent began to move out of the way, then stopped, eying the janitor suspiciously. Alarm bells rang in his head. The A-team was known to don disguises as needed, especially Colonel Smith. He studied the man in front of him, then pulled a radio from his pocket.

    
"Able Four to base."

    
"Go ahead, Able Four."

    
He looked at the janitor again, debating. "I got some guy here trying to get in the ICU."

    
"Is it one of them?"

    
The janitor glared at him as if trying to stare him down. "Will ya move it, mister? I got three more floors t'finish." He raised up on tiptoes, wobbling slightly.

    
"Could be." The agent answered. "Send a backup."

    
"Git yerself outta my way, mister!"

    
"Roger that," came the answer, "Able Eight and Able Fourteen are on their way."

    
"Acknowledged," responded Able Four. He snapped the radio off and shoved it into his pocket. Withdrawing his pistol from its holster, he held it casually in front of him.

    
The janitor's attitude changed abruptly. "Okay, mister," he said nervously, backing away. "I don't have t' mop here now." He stumbled against the pail, dropping the mop. It skittered away, and he scrambled after it.

    
"Hold it!" snapped the agent. He leveled the weapon at the other. 

    
The janitor halted, dropping the mop he had just recovered. Shaking, he raised his hands. 

    
Able Four advanced on him. "Put your hands on your head," he ordered. The janitor complied.

    
The elevator doors rumbled open, disgorging two more agents. They drew their weapons, taking up positions on either side of the janitor. One produced a set of handcuffs, locking them around the wrists of the suspect. The other grabbed the man by an elbow and hustled him-protesting loudly-back to the elevator.

    
Once the doors closed, Able Four relaxed and returned his weapon to its holster, congradulating himself on his vigilance. He retrieved the abandoned mop from the floor, then reached for the bucket, intending to move both from the middle of the hall. The bucket rolled toward him, then stopped abruptly, halted by a foot planted firmly on one side of it. 

    
"Right idea," said Hannibal, "wrong man." He casually pointed a handgun at the agent, who dropped the mop and automatically raised his hands. "How 'bout you hand me your gun, and we discuss it in the closet?"

    
Mentally kicking himself, Able Four withdrew the weapon, handing it over butt first. Hannibal tucked it in his belt. Then, with a gesture at the agent, he followed the other toward a linen closet. Shortly thereafter, Able Four was secured with an assortment of towels and tape, and seated in a laundry trolley, with additional towels and sheets were flung over him.

    
"Sorry, pal," Hannibal apologized, locking the closet, "Your buddies will find you eventually." He straightened the scrubs he was wearing, headed for the ICU doors, and pushed through them.

    
Once inside, he paused and scanned the area. The desk area appeared deserted, an illusion created by the fact that most of the staff were occupied in the individual rooms. He moved purposely toward the desk, then stopped as if to read something there. Another glance around the area, then at the main doors, and he started toward Face's room.

    
"Can I help you?"

    
He turned, facing a staff member-a nurse, by her name tag-holding an IV bag. He hadn't seen her earlier. Then he saw the open door behind the desk. _She must have been back there, getting the IV._ He hesitated. "I'm here to see a friend of mine," he said.

    
She glanced first for a name tag, then her gaze moved up, stopping at his eyes. A gauntlet of emotions flickered across her face, settling into recognition laced with resignation. With a wry smile, she started to cross her arms, realized that she still held the IV bag, and set it on the desk. She folded her arms, then said, "When do I expect the others?"

    
Hannibal looked at her questioningly. 

    
"You guys are as persistent as cockroaches," she said, and added softly, "and about as hard to get rid of."

    
Hannibal shrugged apologetically. "We're not trying to cause trouble," he said, "It just seems to follow us. We're just concerned about our friend."

    
Renee sighed. She glanced at her rooms, then back at Hannibal. "Okay," she said. She picked up the IV bag and headed to Face's room. Hannibal followed. She stopped outside the door and held up one hand. "Wait here," she ordered, then went into the room.

    
Murdock looked up when Renee entered. "Would you please step outside for a bit?" she requested abruptly, snapping the blinds closed. 

    
Puzzled by the impatience in her voice, he nodded and stood. "I'll be back," he said to Face, lightly touching him on the shoulder. 

    
"And close the door."

    
"Yes, ma'am." He closed the door behind himself, wondering at her tone, then glanced up. Seeing Hannibal leaning against the window, he understood some of her frustration. Murdock nodded at Hannibal, who returned the nod. They waited.

    
Hannibal broke the silence. "How's he doing?'

    
"Renee said 'No change'," Murdock answered.

    
Hannibal raised an eyebrow at the name, but let it pass for the moment. Murdock seemed pulled into himself, more so than Hannibal had ever seen him. The captain had that ability, but never had it manifest itself to this extent. Murdock glanced briefly at Hannibal, then his gaze returned to nothingness.

    
He may have seemed lost in his thoughts, but Murdock had noted more than Hannibal realized. The colonel looked tired and aged. While his brain knew that Hannibal was older than the rest of them, that particular knowledge had never hit him so thoroughly until now. _It's Wednesday morning,_ he thought,_ and the colonel hasn't slept since we got back from Spain. There was the restaurant, Stockwell, and wondering if Face is going to make it. And you want him to look like the cover of 'Vanity Fair'?_

    
The seconds stretched into minutes. It felt as though they had stood for hours, waiting to be allowed back into the room. When the blinds finally opened, Murdock and Hannibal straightened quickly, eyes on the door. 

    
It opened, and Renee halted in the doorway, startled by the intense gazes directed at her. Neither man said a word, but she could read the question unasked by both. She hesitated, then said, "Okay. Ten minutes." She stepped aside, allowing them into the room.

    
Murdock gestured for Hannibal to go first. The colonel turned to the nurse, bowed slightly, then entered the room. He moved to the chair previously occupied by Murdock.

    
The captain turned to Renee. "Thanks," he said, then added, "Only two more coming. I promise." 

    
Renee started to say something, then appeared to change her mind. She gave Murdock a brief smile, then returned to the desk.

    
Murdock went into the room. He closed the door part way, then joined Hannibal at the bedside. He glanced at the monitors, but again, they meant nothing to him, other than the pulse and blood pressure. And the EKG, still tracing a living heart.

    
They remained silent, watching the man on the bed, and searching for some hopeful sign. Murdock sensed that the stillness bothered Hannibal as much as it had him. He wondered if-like himself-it reminded Hannibal of that day, back in Vietnam. Rather than confirm the thought, he asked, "BA and Frankie?"

    
Hannibal- his thoughts interrupted-looked at him. "They're here," he said, "Just not here yet."

    
Murdock nodded, remembering the lack of agents at the front door. _Of course, BA would see to that. He's just a bit cautious, with having Frankie in tow._ He felt a brief rush of sympathy for Frankie, caught up in the mess of their lives; and for BA, with another team member to watch out for. His thoughts turned back to the man in front of him. He leaned against the bed rail, aware that Hannibal's attention was on him, and asked, "D'you ever think, back then, that we'd still be doing this fifteen years later?"

    
Hannibal didn't respond. He looked at Face for what seemed like ages before returning his attention to Murdock. "No, I didn't," he finally admitted, "I thought this whole thing would have been settled in our favor right after the war."

    
"And Stockwell?" persisted Murdock.

    
Hannibal hesitated. "I still think he's our best bet," he said, "Better than stepping on a rusty nail."

    
Murdock looked at Face. Minutes seemed to slow into eternity. He looked back at Hannibal and said softly, "He hasn't had much of a life, has he?"

    
Hannibal studied the pilot before answering. "None of us has since then," he responded.

    
"I know." Murdock wasn't giving up on the subject yet. "But we all had somewhere-somebody-to come from. Face doesn't." He snorted briefly, sounding like BA. "Face's been on the run almost half his life." He paused. "It's just not fair."

    
"Life isn't fair, Captain," Hannibal said, "And Face isn't the only one with that problem."

    
"I know," Murdock acknowledged, "But still, he never. . ."

    
"He tried," Hannibal reminded him, "We all tried." Faint exasperation crept into his voice. " I didn't set it up this way, Murdock. We're all playing with the hand we've been dealt. If it hadn't been for the Army pushing on this, we could have faded into the sunset like all the other vets. But we got a reputation, a notoriety, along with the Lynches, Deckers, Fulbrights and assorted others." _And how many times have we all had this conversation over the years?_

    
Murdock subsided. He sensed that Hannibal was in agreement with him, but held back from admitting so. He knew better than to push the colonel, and they returned to an uneasy silence, waiting. 

    
A brief commotion jerked them from their thoughts. Murdock glanced at Hannibal, then rose and looked out from the room. Two more scrub-suited men had entered the ICU and were at the desk, one of them wheedling the staff person there. In spite of himself, Murdock grinned. _You guys should've asked for Renee,_ he thought. He looked back at Hannibal, then headed to the desk.

    
"Excuse me," he interrupted. They all turned to him, looks of relief on the faces of BA and Frankie. The nurse merely looked puzzled-and annoyed. _It seems to be a common expression among ICU staff today, _Murdock thought. He took a deep breath. "Renee okayed their coming," he bluffed, mentally crossing his fingers that she would back him up. He glanced at the other room she covered. That patient was being transferred, Renee occupied with giving instructions to the attendants.

    
Frankie opened his mouth, but was abruptly jabbed by BA. "Shut up, fool," he growled softly. Murdock frowned at him also, silently willing Frankie to keep his mouth shut. 

    
Renee tucked the chart next to the patient, smiled encouragingly at both patient and attendants, and watched as the stretcher rolled out of the ICU. She sighed in relief, and turned back to the desk, only to be met by the glare of her coworker and Murdock's pleading eyes. She sighed again, and walked to the desk.

    
"Renee," began both the nurse and Murdock. BA looked at him, then Murdock, and shook his head.

    
She held up a hand and looked at Murdock with a scowl that could rival BA's. Then her expression smoothed out and she turned to the other nurse. "It's all right, Lynn," she said, "I okayed these guys." She studied Murdock briefly-warningly--and continued, "And HM's taking responsibility for it."

    
"All right,"said Lynn doubtfully, and turned back to her chart.

    
At a gesture from Renee, the three men followed her to Face's room. She paused, looking first at BA, then Frankie, and finally Murdock. "Ten minutes," she said. She pushed open the door.

    
"Thanks," grunted BA.

    
"We really do appreciate this. . .," Frankie began, but BA snorted and shoved him into the room. He followed, leaving Murdock outside with Renee.

    
Murdock opened his mouth, closed it again, then leaned forward and quickly kissed Renee. "Thanks," he said, and disappeared into the room. The door closed.

    
Renee stood, staring at the closed door. Her hand raised to her face, and she could feel herself blushing. She walked back to the desk, gratefully noting that Lynn was in the med room, and no one else seemed to be paying attention. She grabbed Face's chart, flipped it open and began writing.

  
  


TBC

  
  


  
  



	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

  
  
  
  
  
  


    
Renee was apologetic, but firm when she ushered them from Face's room. Her suggestion to resume the "one-at-a-time" rotation had more that a hint of command to it. Frankie had started to protest, but the looks from both Murdock and BA caused him to subside. While the others returned to the waiting room, Hannibal remained with Face-and Renee.

    
He watched as she reviewed the monitors and checked vital signs. Absently, she brushed the hair from Face's forehead, a gesture at odds with her brisk, professional movements. She paused, then turned to the chart and opened it. She began writing, glancing occasionally at Face.

    
His gaze returned to the lieutenant. The stillness there bothered him as much as it had Murdock. Only once before has he seen Face that motionless. Impatiently, he pushed the thought from his mind. Hannibal had always held-after their stay in a Vietnamese prison camp-that the team could survive anything. Part of his mind still insisted that was so, even with the reality in front of him. 

    
The conversation with Murdock also bothered him. The captain was right, much as Hannibal hated to admit it. But then, maybe losses held the team together as much as anything else. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully, wishing he could have a cigar. Perhaps it was time to push Stockwell on the subject of their pardons.

    
His attention was drawn back to Renee, as she closed the chart and stood. She looked at Hannibal, then turned, and opened the blinds. She was moving toward the door when a soft sound caught her attention. Holding her breath, she turned back toward the bed.

    
Hannibal heard it, too. His gaze followed Renee's, and neither moved.

    
Face's head had fallen to one side. It remained there a few moments. Slowly, it returned to center. One hand twitched. It rose slightly, as if pushing something away, then dropped. His eyelids flickered. The hand rose again, reaching toward his face as if to pull away the oxygen cannula there.

    
Renee recovered first. She grabbed for the call light, pulling it from its socket. Outside, a light above the doorway began blinking in time to an insistent beeping. "Out!" she snapped to Hannibal, and hurried toward Face. She grabbed for Face's hand, pulling it back to the bed. "Templeton!" she called.

    
Hannibal moved swiftly to the other side. "Face!" he commanded. He snatched at Face's other hand, which reached toward an IV site as though to rid himself of that irritation. "Face!"

    
Staff people appeared in the doorway. "Get Johnson. Stat," snapped Renee. One nodded and left. The other two joined Renee and Hannibal in restraining Face as his drug- and pain-induced movements became more erratic. Renee and Hannibal continued to call to Face, trying to orient and calm him.

    
A physician appeared with a pair of syringes. Renee shifted, allowing him room to reach the IV line. He injected one via a port directly into the IV lines, followed by the second. He then moved out of the way and disposed of the syringes.

    
The few seconds it took for the medication to work seemed an eternity to those holding Face. Finally, his struggles slowed, and they could release their grip. Hannibal stepped out of the way as the others straightened tubing and cords, and checked that IV sites hadn't been dislodged. 

    
When all was in order, Renee straightened, and brushed the hair out of her eyes. "Thanks, guys," she said to the others as they exited the room, leaving Renee, Hannibal, and the doctor. He examined Face, then called Renee aside and spoke softly to her. Hannibal caught the word "restraints," and saw Renee shake her head furiously. 

    
The doctor shrugged. Then his gaze turned to Hannibal, taking in the scrub suit. 

    
Guessing the question the man was about to ask, Hannibal beat him to the thought. "I'm his next-of-kin," he said glibly. He gestured at his clothes and continued, "I spilled coffee all over myself, and Renee was kind enough to lend me this."

    
Somewhat satisfied, the doctor opened the chart and wrote quickly. With a final word to Renee, and a nod to Hannibal, the man left the room. Renee gathered up the chart, glanced at Face, then turned to Hannibal. "Thanks for your help," she said simply.

    
Hannibal nodded. He looked at Face, then back to Renee. "He's awake," he said, with quiet satisfaction.

    
"He's _conscious_," Renee amended, emphasizing the word. She recognized the hope in Hannibal's voice, and sought to temper it with reality. "His blood pressure still isn't good, and I don't know how much more blood we can pump into him." She hesitated, then said softly, as though Face would hear, "We could still lose him."

    
"We won't," said Hannibal. He smiled confidently. "BA'd kill him otherwise."

    
Caught off-guard, Renee shook her head and smiled back. Then she returned to the desk.

    
The machines continued their hums and clicks, as Hannibal looked at Face. The stillness was back-courtesy of the medication-but it had a different quality to it. Something had returned to Face, and while Hannibal couldn't identify it, he was relieved to see it.

    
BA had taken Murdock's former position at the window, scowling at the cityscape below, and ignoring the other two temporarily. Frankie was fidgeting again, pretending to read a magazine, but his attention wandered between BA, Murdock, and the unit doors. He had offered to make a cafeteria run for the others, but had been turned down by Murdock. BA hadn't bothered answering.

    
Like Frankie, Murdock was unable to sit still. He wandered over to the ICU doors and hesitated there. He looked through the windows, debating whether to go in. He didn't want to give Renee reason to banish them, or to call Stockwell. 

    
Movement inside the unit caught his attention. People were again concentrated at one of the cubicles, and Murdock's heart seemed to drop in his chest as he realized that it involved Face. He stepped inside the doors, then paused as one of the staff hurried back to the desk and picked up the phone. He didn't hear the page broadcasted, registering instead Hannibal's voice, calling Face by name. 

    
As it did for those inside the room, time seemed to slow for Murdock. His hands clenched into fists, willing the situation to end favorably. Another man _(a doctor?)_ hurried into the room, with what looked like a syringe in hand. Murdock guessed that there was no room for him inside the cubicle, not with what seemed like half the staff there already. He stayed by the ICU door, watching and waiting.

    
Finally, three of the staff members exited the cubicle, neutral expressions on their faces. None of them hurried toward the phone, as Renee had done earlier. Hope rising, Murdock glanced at the other set of doors, expecting to see a stretcher and attendants burst through. The doors remained closed.

    
The man who had entered the room with the syringes now left it, empty-handed. Murdock unclenched his hands and started toward Face's room. He saw Renee leave the room, chart in hand, but she seemed preoccupied and didn't notice him. He watched her return to the desk, then slipped into Face's room, standing so that he wasn't easily visible.

    
Seated next to the bed, Hannibal glanced up, and nodded acknowledgment. "Captain," he said.

    
"Colonel." Murdock wondered at his formality, and felt his heart drop again. "What happened?" He sensed a change in the atmosphere. Unable to immediately define it, he feared the worst. Hannibal's hesitation before answering only increased his anxiety. 

    
"He's conscious," Hannibal said, finally, "But they've sedated him."

    
Murdock sagged in relief. Hannibal reached for him, but Murdock waved him off. "I'm . . . it's okay," he said. He looked at Face, seeing the same change that Hannibal had, and it was reassuring. 

    
Hannibal glanced down at his lieutenant. "Hang in there, kid," he said softly, touching Face lightly on the arm. He walked over to Murdock, pausing to lay his hand on Murdock's shoulder. "I'll go tell BA and Frankie," he said, "They'll want to see him."

    
"Yeah," Murdock nodded, his voice almost inaudible. Hannibal left the room, and Murdock moved to the chair the colonel had vacated. He sat down, reaching to touch Face.

    
Face moaned, and his head moved slightly. Startled, Murdock pulled back his hand, as though he'd gotten an electric shock. He reached forward again, then hesitated. Remembering his earlier experience with the IV pump, he glanced at the bag on it. It was half-full, and he smiled ruefully. He laid his hand carefully on Face's arm.

    
"Hey, Face," he said softly, with a flash of his old self, "I know you can hear me, so don't pretend you can't. The big guy's gonna be in here soon. He ain't gonna like you laying around when there's work to do. Besides, you're setting a bad example for Frankie."

    
The doorway darkened, and he looked up. BA stood there. His expression caused Murdock smiled briefly to himself. _The big guy looks mighty uncomfortable._ He walked over to BA, who held out an arm to stop him.

    
"Hannibal say we gonna take shifts from now on," BA said, "You get the first one, on account that you had more sleep than the rest of us." He tried to scowl, but didn't quite make it, as he added, "But no more coffee." 

    
Murdock's smile became visible. "Okay," he said. He left the room, and headed toward the nurse's desk. Renee was still there, with several other people. As he drew closer to the desk, he heard her discussing Face's condition with one of them. "Excuse me," he said.

    
She looked up with a scowl, which smoothed out quickly when she recognized him. "You know," Murdock said, "You scowl just like the big guy there." He paused. "Only he's not so pretty."

    
Her expression was a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. "I'm sorry," said Murdock, embarrassed himself, "I . . . I just want, um, to tell you that, uh, that . . . " He paused, struggling for the words, then gave up. "Thanks." 

    
Renee nodded. "You're welcome," she said. She indicated the nurse-who looked as though she'd just left high school-by her side. "Sharon'll be his nurse for the next shift."

    
Murdock ducked his head in acknowledgment. An elusive memory flitted through his mind. Someone tapped him on the shoulder-distracting his thoughts-and he turned to see whom.. 

    
"You, uh, you gonna be okay?" asked Frankie. "You sure you don't want someone to stay with you?"

    
"No, no," Murdock said, "No, I'll . . . I'll be all right." The memory-or whatever it was-had gone now. He and Frankie walked to the ICU doors. Frankie looked at Murdock, the same question again in his eyes. Murdock waved him off, and Frankie ducked through the doors. Murdock watched as he joined Hannibal and BA. Hannibal was saying something about releasing the Ables, before the three of them left the floor. 

    
Murdock turned back to the desk, but Renee had already left. The staff that were there moved about the unit, engaged their normal beginning-of-shift activities. The new nurse _(Sharon?)_ was already in Face's room, with the blinds closed. Murdock walked over to the cubicle, and leaned against the doorframe, waiting. 

  
  


  
  


TBC

  
  



	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


    
The ICU staff had kept Face sedated for two days after that. Renee hadn't returned to the unit since. Murdock didn't know about the rest of the team, but he, personally, wished that she would come back. She had felt like a stabilizing element in this whole fiasco, a familiar face. He'd seen few people who could stand up to Hannibal like that. The other nurses-especially what's-her-name (_Susie? Sarah? Sharon? Whatever)-_seemed too bright and bouncy, almost irritating, and much too young to be there. He'd asked one of the others about Renee, and was told only that she was "on vacation." 

    
Still, Face had been moved out of the ICU yesterday, and to another floor. That was a good sign. They'd also reduced his sedation. BA said that Face had been less groggy-more alert-last shift. Alert enough to realize that the nurse on duty (_what WAS her name?_) was young and attractive. BA had sounded grouchy when he related this to Murdock, but the captain had recognized the relief in the other's voice.

    
Murdock drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. The staff had evicted him from Face's room almost as soon as he had relieved BA. It was the usual procedure-being sent out of the room while they did . . . whatever it was they did. He hated going to the waiting room; he'd spent too much time in there already. _Besides, they never had cartoons on the TV there, not the good ones._ So he hung around the nurse's desk, trying to stay out of the way, and not quite succeeding.

    
He watched the room, barely seeing it as his mind wandered. Hannibal had gone the rounds with Stockwell again last night. The general was pushing for the team to get back to work. And while he knew the inactivity bothered Hannibal, the colonel was holding Stockwell to his assurance that they would be off until Face recovered. _And no "or else,"_ his mind added in satisfaction. Frankie was back to being Frankie. BA had practically ripped the van apart and put it back together in the last couple of days. _The big guy always felt better when he was working with his hands,_ he thought,_ 'Member when we tried to talk him into being on the chopper crew and . . ._ His mind closed off that thought, reluctant to follow where it would inevitably lead.

    
The nurse stepped out of the room. She nodded to Murdock as she passed by, moving behind the desk. Murdock nodded back, and heading for Face's room. 

    
Face was sitting up in bed. He was still pale, but not as bad as he had been in the restaurant. He smiled at Murdock-a shadow of his usual smile-then grimaced as he shifted in bed.

    
"You okay, Face-man?" Murdock asked, "Hey, you're supposed to be using that pillow when you move." He moved to the side of the bed and pulled one of the pillows from behind Face.

    
"I can't move and hold a damn pillow," Face said, irritably. The abrupt movement of the pillow caused him to wince. "I don't have that many hands."

    
"Well, you're gonna split them stitches," said Murdock, "And then the big guy is gonna sit on you for doing it. Let me help."

    
"I don't need help, Murdock."

    
"Sure you don't," Murdock agreed. He assisted Face to a different position, ignoring the mutterings from the other. "Don't be so pig-headed, Face."

    
Much as he hated to admit it, Face needed the help. Since transferring to the medical-surgical area of the hospital, he had blacked out a few times-usually from moving too quickly. And although he'd been instructed and cautioned to use a pillow to splint his side when he moved, he became impatient and "forgot" most of the time. 

    
"Thanks, Murdock," Face said, grudgingly. 

    
Murdock grinned. For all his liking to be pampered, Face was a lousy patient. _But then,_ Murdock had to agree,_ I'd be just as impatient if our positions were reversed. _ He watched as Face shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position. 

    
It wasn't just the pain, and the narrow hospital bed. Since regaining awareness of where he was and what had happened, Face had felt like a microscope specimen. Not just from the hospital staff, but the rest of the team as well. It had been a long time since the team had been slapped with their own mortality, and the thought was not sitting well with any of them.

    
He glanced covertly at Murdock. _Knowing him, he's been sitting here longer than the rest combined. _Not to cut down the others on the team, but that was just Murdock. He'd been that way as long as Face had known him.

    
Projecting as much as of his usual cockiness in his voice as he could manage, he said, "Murdock, I really have enough babysitters. Why don't you go, uh, take Billy for a walk?"

    
The captain looked at him with an inscrutable expression. "You okay, Face?"

    
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Face lied. "I just . . I'm just gonna rest a bit." He squirmed a bit against the pillow, and closed his eyes. 

    
Murdock watched him for a few moments, considering. Then he shrugged and walked out the door.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


    
The Congressional Cemetery was only a few blocks from DC General. It was less well-known than its famous cousin across the Potomac, which meant less tourists and traffic. Murdock passed through the front gate, heading along his usual route of past the chapel and toward the Anacostia River. 

    
He paused by the public vault, long enough to run his hand over the sun-warmed stone, with a brief thought of the three presidents and two first ladies that lay there. Then he turned and walked south, a part of his mind counting gravestones and roads as one would count rosary beads. Crossing Ingle Street, he headed toward a section of family vaults.

    
He wasn't aware of conscious thoughts. They simply drifted and eddied in his mind. Now and then one would pause long enough to either bring a smile to his face, or a pain to his soul. Occasionally a name from the past would flicker across a monument. _There, there are names that belong to the graves in Delaware. And the marker like that one in Wisconsin. _That thought brought a stabbing reminder of the remains laying in the Vietnamese jungle. It had always bothered Murdock that there had been no burial and no grave there. He mentally stamped that thought down. Then there were the peter pilots, who had moved on to their own birds and out of his memories. _And the nameless troops carried out and back._

    
His thoughts distracted him enough that he tripped over a smaller gravestone, sprawling alongside it. A child's grave, from the looks of it. Murdock stood, brushing the grass clippings from himself. He looked ahead to the family vaults, then shook his head, collecting his thoughts. He turned, and walked back to the entrance.

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


    
Hannibal called the next day, to tell him that Stockwell had arranged for Face to be released from the hospital. While the colonel had held Stockwell to the agreement of no missions until Face had recovered, that was probably chafing the general. _Besides, inactivity didn't sit well with Hannibal either. _Hannibal and BA were picking up Face later that afternoon, and bringing him back to Langley. 

    
Murdock hung up the phone. Sal had given him time off, considering the circumstances. But he knew he couldn't go back to the restaurant, not to work anyway. There'd be too many memories. His leaving wouldn't cause too much of a problem for Sal. The restaurant's business had picked up, and Sal had had to hire more staff anyway. He was even thinking of expanding the place.

    
Murdock checked his watch, then grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote out a resignation note. He pulled on his jacket, stuffing the note into his pocket, and picked up his cap. Then he headed out the door.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


TBC

  
  


  
  


  
  



	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

  
  


  
  


    
He nearly dropped the pizza box, trying to get the door handle to turn. Gina caught it before it completely slid out of his grasp, with only slight juggling of the bags she carried. Sal-given his choice-would have sent enough food to feed the team for a month. As it was, the bags and box they carried would take care of the guys for the next day or two. Murdock let Gina finish opening the door, and they got themselves through it and into the entryway without further damage to their bundles.

    
Face was wedged in one section of the L-shaped couch, his injured side against the back of it. A blanket was wrapped around him, effectively immobilizing him on the couch. He still looked pale and exhausted, and the trip back to Langley probably hadn't helped him any. Murdock sent a few evil thoughts toward Stockwell for moving Face too soon. Still, it was good to see him up. Hannibal was seated on the other section of the couch with Frankie standing behind him, and BA stood near the corner created by the two sections.

    
Their entrance had been noted by Face, and the others turned to see what had caught his attention. "Hey," said Frankie, by way of greeting.

    
"Gina and I thought we'd bring you all a little something from the restaurant," Murdock announced, resting the pizza box on the couch between BA and Frankie. His attention turned Face, subtlely checking him over. "How're ya doing, pal?" he smiled.

    
"Great," Face responded, eyes on Gina, checking _her_ out, "great."

    
Gina set the bags she carried down next to the pizza. She glanced at Murdock, then leaned forward, smiling at Face. "We've never really met," she said, "but Murdock's told me all about you."

    
For once, Face's wit seemed to desert him. Enjoying the sight of the silent lieutenant, Hannibal turned his attention to Gina and asked, "How's your father doing?" He glanced over at Murdock, unusually silent, who was watching Face. 

    
Murdock looked back at the colonel. His smile turned slightly ironic, and Hannibal nodded in acknowledgment. They had business to finish later, and the pilot wasn't one to let it be.

    
"He's great," Gina answered, oblivious to the exchange behind her, "He's in seventh heaven. After the news reports about him single-handedly saving Liebster's life, the place is booming."

    
"And listen to this," Murdock added, "I think I saw Stockwell's name on the register for tonight." He grinned, glanced back at Face, and slowly lifted the lid of the box. "Hey," he said, inviting attention toward the pizza inside.

    
"Hey, look at this," Frankie crowed.

    
"Oh, great,"said Face, neutrally, "Pizza."

    
The topping formed a message. "'Get well, Face'," read BA. He leaned forward, sniffing. "Hmmm. Smells good." Inspecting the pizza, he noted the ingredient used to write the words, and straightened indignantly. "Anchovies!" he yelled, glaring at Murdock.

    
"Face likes anchovies," Murdock offered, innocently.

    
Face nodded, and started to respond, but was interrupted by a howl from BA.

    
"NOBODY LIKES ANCHOVIES!"

    
"I like anchovies," Murdock challenged. He wasn't going to let BA intimidate him over a pizza, even if it was the second time he'd put one with anchovies in front of the mudsucker this month. He glared back at BA. Nervously, Gina stepped back from between them.

    
Seconds slowed as they stared at each other, neither giving in. Then BA reached forward and grabbed the box. He yanked it from Murdock's hands, eliciting a yelp from the pilot. Heading for the nearest open window, he hurled it through, then turned back to the team with a satisfied look on his face.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


FINI

  
  
  
  
  
  


Author's note -Apologies to Bill Nuss for the liberties taken with his screenplay, but it wrapped up the story nicely.


End file.
